RICH'S NOTES-PARENTAL TOURISMMay 4, 1999
Nerja, Province of Málaga
Nerja
Bombing along the autoroute from Seville to Málaga. My mother’s figuring it out.
I haven’t the foggiest idea about tonight’s accommodations. Everyone’s
agreed to be serendipitous—my parents welcome the concept of mosey—but with
signs of trepidation. Flying by the seat of your pants (even with a big, comfortable
rental car and lots of credit cards) is not the easiest of transformations for those
accustomed to schedules and reservations and absolutely no surprises. I can hear the
guidebook pages turning in the back seat. "What’s the name of that town
we’re visiting?"
"Somewhere near Málaga"
"Where is Málaga?"
"It's on the Mediterranean coast. There are lots of hotels."
"What if there’s a conference?"
This is my mother's explanation for all accommodation shortages. Granted, a conference
sucks up a lot of rooms but this is the Costa del Sol. The only meetings going on here are
on the beach and in the discos and quite possibly at the driving range. I'm not worried
about finding a bed but as she questions me my resolution weakens. She settles on the
Hostal Avalon. It's the only listing. "It says it has a view."
After an unsuccessful pass into Nerja and out of town again we are back on the road to
find the Hostal Avalon on Punta Lara. Having now seen the area, I am sure that the sole
point of land sticking out into the sea is where we will find what the book refers to as
the Lara Point Urbanization. But to be sure, my father gets directions from the highway
gas station. Despite not speaking a word of Spanish, he does well with the pointing and
annunciating. I’m wondering how he did it. "The attendant spoke some
English." That’s right – we’re on the Costa del Sol.
The Hostal Avalon is 5 km from Málaga but only 3 hours from London. I know I’m in
Spain but the beer comes in pints. Dark and bitter. The reception doubles as a pub. The
conversation lulls. I’m asking the barkeep about a room. He replies with, "Do
you speak English?"
Our rooms are rustic, overlooking the Sierra de Tejeda and the turquoise Mediterranean.
Over a pint of lager, the proprietors tell us their names are Richard and Richard, and
their father’s names were Richard and Richard. My father and I introduce ourselves as
Richard and Richard. I’m looking through an English library. There’s a local
newspaper, published in Nerja, it’s called Streetwise. Movie reviews, property
listings and ads for English speaking plumbers and nurses for hire shed light on an
English speaking community. At the back are the results of the pool league tournament held
at the Avalon and won by one of the Richards.
Nerja is developed with holiday apartments and restaurants. It’s a semi-permanent
escape from Europe's northern rain and wind. The town retains a Spanish feel save the four
language menu postings and tour bus ads.
Unlike most of this coast, the land surrounding Nerja is still used for farming. We
watch from the balcony as the fields are ploughed by horse and oxen. We watch the farmer
and his donkeys cross the coastal highway. Cars and motos pass at unthinkable speeds.
Buses and semi trailers carrying strawberries and soft drinks and car parts hurtle past
between the beach and the farmland, and the hotel, and the city. The farmer watches the
highway in both directions, and when it clears for a moment, he winds up and whips the
animals with punishment and urgency. They jump forward and drag the plow efficiently over
the pavement.
Crops are greenhouse tomatoes and peas and wheat grains. Thick borders of cane surround
the fields. The cane is grown as part of rent payment to the Larios Gin family. At one
time the Larios' owned all of the Costa del Sol for cane production. They still collect
rent from municipalities who lease their land.
There is a tentative balance between old and new around Nerja. Developers undoubtedly
smack their chops at the flat coastal farmland. The "Costa del Sol" is a name
given to this stretch of Mediterranean beach once used as a wintering place for English
travelers in the 19th century—now a rash of high-rise developments, cheap
package holidays, golfing and retirement complexes. When Sara’s parents came to live
here in 1964, these towns were no more than fishing villages, full of toothless farmers
and rotting boats, with barefooted men pulling clams from the sand and casting lures from
the beach. Pockets of Brits resided in Málaga and Torremolinos and Fuengirola for health
and sunshine. Other than that, these places were invisible to the developing world.
Today the fishers and the farmers survive in coves between developments and hotel
strips. A sign on the coastal highway reads "Costa del Golf". We are surrounded
by the tantalizing, unspoiled mountain ranges of the Sierra Nevada and the Sierra Tejeda.
The farmer and his donkeys appear blind, or perhaps indifferent to the English language
menus and the tour buses and the undeniably toxic sunburns. There is reason enough to come
to this place for the sunshine, but there is so much more which give reason enough to
return.
